What I Did on My… Yeah, Right!
by The Wild Wild Whovian
Summary: One-shot, complete. Here it is, the first day of a new school year — and for you, the first day at this new school — and of course, inevitably, your very first assignment is that age-old, timeworn exercise in pure busywork.


You squirm uncomfortably in the small chair with its even smaller attached table top — just one of a grid work of other small chairs with their own attached table tops, all of them lined up in ranks and files, all facing the only full-sized desk in the room. At the desk looms the teacher, the well-named Ms Bitters. She has just chalked an assignment onto the blackboard behind her, which she now reads aloud, apparently on the apprehension that some of the captives in her classroom cannot read. (On the other hand, having glanced over your fellow inmates when you first entered the room, you suspect the teacher may have a point.)

Oh, but the assignment though! That has you rolling your eyes. Other students actually groan aloud, earning a glare from Ms Bitters. But really, is she serious? Here it is, the first day of a new school year — and for you, the first day at this new school — and of course, inevitably, your very first assignment is that age-old, timeworn exercise in pure busywork:

 _What I Did on My Summer Vacation_

Gaahh! You can feel brain cells withering at the very thought. And what really annoys you is that not only _could_ you have predicted this, you in fact did. Just the night before when the old maternal unit came to tuck you into bed, you had said to her, "Whatcha bet the first thing we have to do is write that same stupid report about our summer vacations, huh?"

"I do not participate in wagers," the maternal unit responded.

"Every single year, every single school I've ever been enrolled in, that's the one thing we've _always_ had to do the first day. I mean come on, don't those teachers have an ounce of imagination?"

The maternal unit blinked at you. She certainly didn't have an ounce of imagination; it wasn't in her programming.

You, on the other hand, have plenty of imagination. It's how you've coped with all the previous summer vacation papers all those previous years: Me and my best friend did this. Me and best friend did that. Trips to the beach. Trips to the mountains. Trips to amusement parks, to the city, to the country. Blah blah blah, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

"Just once," you said to the maternal unit as she gave you the compulsory kiss on the forehead, "I'd like to write one of those stupid papers and actually tell the _truth!"_

At that the maternal unit had frozen for nearly half a minute, her gears audibly clacking away inside her head before she at last responded. "Do not do that!" she admonished you sternly. "That will be Bad."

"Yeah?" you scoffed. "Why?"

"Because," she stated flatly, "they cannot handle the Truth."

That was last night though. Now… now the idea of telling the truth explodes into your brain with shimmering fascination. The truth! Tell the truth! You grab a pencil and paper, scribble furiously for less than a minute, then lay down the pencil with a smile, fold your hands atop the paper, and wait.

Sure enough, before long the gimlet eyes of Ms Bitters focus on you. "Hey!" she says, "Hey, new girl! What do you think you're doing? Why aren't you writing?"

You smile serenely at her. "I'm done."

"Done!" she snarls. "Don't lie to me; you can't possibly be done."

"Nevertheless." You smile, taking smugness to a whole new level. "I am done. The assignment is complete."

"Oh, it is, is it, little miss…" She pauses, having already forgotten your name, and quickly scans the list in her attendance book. "Ah, Trig! So if you're already done, Miss Trig Smartypants, then why don't you come up here in front of the class and read your report, hmm?"

Oo, even better! "All right, I will!" you say. Beaming, you hop up from your seat and flounce to the front. You turn to face the class, hold your report out in front of you with both hands, clear your throat, and declaim:

 _What I Did on My Summer Vacation_

 _by Trig_

 _I didn't do a blessed thing on my summer vacation. I didn't have one. I spent the entire summer estivating, because that's what my people do._

 _The End_

You curtsey deeply, your eyes sweeping over the room. Ha! What fun you're having, and what funny looks you see on the faces of everyone in the room! And surely it's coming, that one inevitable question you know is in everybody's mind...

"Estivating! What the heck is estivating? There's no such word. You made it up!"

Yep, just as you expected. Or sort of. You were sure that someone would challenge you on your use of the word estivating, but you are shocked that the challenger is not one of your fellow scholars, but is in fact…

"Ms Bitters!" you cry. "It absolutely is _so_ a word! Estivating is a scientific term, and it means to…"

"It means to sleep all summer," a voice interrupts you. "It's the summer version of hibernating."

You — and Ms Bitters — look around to see who decided to butt in. "Dib!" the teacher roars. "Can't you ever keep that big mouth in that enormous head of yours _shut?"_

You drop the page onto Ms Bitter's desk and head back to your seat, aware of Dib scanning you, searching you, examining you through narrowed eyes as if suddenly recognizing you as an immensely interesting specimen that he's just itching to put under a microscope.

And as you take your seat again, it hits you. Dib isn't the only one staring at you strangely. One other kid, the one sitting right across the aisle from you — oh, the look on his sickly green face is even weirder! Not confusion, not suspicious inquiry. No, he looks… angry. As if you've just announced your intention to take his favorite toy away from him.

You scowl at him and hiss, "What's your problem, anyway, Greenie?"

He glares back and yells (yes, yells! He seems to have no concept of whispering, as if his volume control doesn't have a setting lower than Eleven), "I am _Zim!_ And you, Trig of the people who estivate — you have just made for yourself the worst enemy in the entire universe." He throws his head high and adds, "Be honored!"

Honored? Honored is not how you feel. You feel — confused. Apprehensive. Who is this Zim and what does he mean?

And on top of all that, what are you going to tell the maternal unit tonight when she asks you how was school today? You slump down in your seat. Oh, you are _so_ going to be grounded!

 **The End**


End file.
